


Let Me Be Your Shelter

by KChan88



Series: She Was Bound to Love You [18]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual!Christine, Blood and Injury, F/F, Genderbending, Injury Recovery, Lesbian Character, Lesbian!Raoul, Major Character Injury, Medical Examination, Medical Procedures, Mental Anguish, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rule 63, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24868732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: What if Raoul de Chagny was a woman?A series featuring the major events (and a few things in-between) from the Phantom of the Opera, with a gender-bent, lesbian Raoul (and a bisexual Christine). ALW based, with Leroux elements.Scene 12: Christine finds her way back to the surface, and gets Raoul home. Faced with Raoul's terrible injuries, the de Chagny siblings take care of their sister, and Christine.
Relationships: Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Series: She Was Bound to Love You [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627735
Comments: 12
Kudos: 26





	Let Me Be Your Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for all your lovely comments on the last chapter! It was great to hear that I got that piece right.

When they’re halfway across the lake, Raoul starts talking.

Or at least, she tries to.

“Christine,” she says, and her voice is raspy and her throat looks swollen now, not to mention the angry red marks from the rope. “I need to tell you something.”

“My love,” Christine answers, cursing this lake for being so long. “I think…” she considers her words, because she doesn’t want to scare Raoul now that they’re free, but she is in a frightful state and she doesn’t know if…no. She refuses to think of that. “I think you need to rest.”

“I just…” Raoul coughs, a little more blood staining her lips. “I need to tell you something.”

Christine nods, and she wishes she could just lay down in the boat with Raoul, that the damn thing would just row itself.

“Eloise she…she tore up the letter you sent me. I didn’t…I didn’t know you sent it and I’m so…sorry and…she told me before the opera but I didn’t want…”

Raoul coughs again, more violently, and she wheezes too, Christine can hear the air whistling in her chest like her lungs are angry at being so deprived of air.

“Sweetheart,” Christine whispers, removing one hand from the oar and brushing some of the blood from Raoul’s lips with her thumb, and there’s nowhere to wipe it but the wedding dress, the red smearing across the white. “It’s all right. Whatever Eloise did, we’re together now. Rest, we’re almost there.”

Raoul’s eyes fall shut again, one hand reaching up to grasp the edge of Christine’s dress like she can’t bear to let go.

So her letter did reach the de Chagny home.

Raoul just never got it.

There’s no time to think further on the matter because they’re approaching the edge of the lake, and Christine, expecting to see the mob, instead sees just one person. A tiny, exhausted smile breaks out across her face, because it’s _just_ the someone she wants to see.

Meg.

She’s hovering around the edge of the water with a furrowed brow, searching for some way to cross it, when she looks up, her eyes widening.

“Christine!” she exclaims—though, it’s more of a screech, than anything, her high, sharp voice echoing all around them. “You’re alive, you’re…” her gaze flicks down to Raoul, and she claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh. Oh _Raoul_. Oh my god. Oh my _god_.”

The boat comes to halt, and Meg helps Christine secure it before tugging her into a quick embrace.

“Oh, I’m _so_ glad to see you.” Meg pulls back, wiping some of the stray tears from Christine’s cheek. “I was so worried.”

“It’s good to see you.” Christine’s voice breaks, a little. “I didn’t know how I was going to get Raoul back on my own. You’re a godsend, Meg Giry. As usual.”

“Maman helped Raoul find her way down here,” Meg explains in a rush. “And she told me not to come, but then she got busy trying to dissuade the mob—but they just took another way—so I…slipped away. What happened? How are you here and…” she stops, realizing how much she’s talking, in her anxiety. “I’m sorry, me babbling isn’t what you need, is it? But how did you get out of there? And…uh…” she surveys the dress. “Why are you…in a wedding dress?”

There are a thousand questions in Meg’s eyes, Christine can see them, but she only has time to answer one.

“He let us go” she says. “I found a way to convince him, and I heard the mob coming, when we left. And the dress is…a long story. I’ll tell you more later but we…” she looks down at Raoul, the enormity of the injuries striking her full in the chest as she lowers her voice. “We have to get Raoul out of here.”

Meg puts a quick kiss on Christine’s cheek before squatting down next to the boat and brushing a damp strand of hair from Raoul’s face.

“Meg?” Raoul asks in that hoarse, terrible voice.

“I’m here, just as you forbade me not to be, I know,” Meg whispers, sounding like she might cry. “You did swear to me you would come back, and you made good on the promise.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at the edge of Raoul’s lips, but it’s full of so much pain that Christine can hardly bear it. Meg stands back up, looking at Christine in question.

“We have to get her back to the dressing room,” Christine says softly. “I…if I send you back for help that might take too long do you think…can we get her down the hallway?”

Meg nods, her long blond curls bouncing up and down as she does so. “Yes. I think we have to try.”

Christine sits down on the ground, knowing she’ll have to ease Raoul into this.

“My love…” Christine presses a kiss to Raoul’s damp, sweaty forehead. “We need to get you down the hallway. I know…” she blinks back tears. “I know it hurts, but can we try?”

“My ankle is…sprained, I think,” Raoul answers, and Christine sees just how bloodshot her eyes are. “But I…I’ll try. I’ll try. I love you.”

“I love you.” Christine strokes Raoul’s cheek. “I love you so much.”

Christine helps Raoul out of the boat, but Raoul’s legs are shaking like mad. Meg comes around on the other side, putting an arm around Raoul’s waist as Christine does the same, and they hobble along toward the hallway. Raoul’s barely putting weight on her injured foot, so it’s more of a hop than a proper walk, and it takes quite a long time to get down the narrow hallway that barely fits the three of them across. Everything is quiet, down here. Haunted. Strange and caught in-between worlds. Christine can barely think of anything other than the moment at hand. She can’t process what she saw in the lair, or what happened to her. 

She is not going to let Raoul die. She’s not.

Raoul shudders when they pass through the mirror into the dressing room, and it’s all Meg and Christine can do to lay her out on the floor before she falls again. Meg squeezes Christine’s hand before dashing out into the hallway, crying out for help.

Christine realizes she has no idea what’s happened in the opera house since Erik whisked her off the stage. No idea what was the result of that blood-curdling scream she heard as Erik forced her through the mirror. She sits down on the floor, too, cradling Raoul’s head in her lap.

“You’re going to be all right,” she whispers. “We’re going to get a doctor here and…”

“Please take me home,” Raoul mumbles. “Please, Christine. The…the fiacre driver from the cemetery he’s…he’s outside.”

Christine doesn’t have time to ask how or why, but perhaps if she can get Raoul home—it’s only a mile or so—then the fiacre driver can go for the doctor and save time. Raoul will do better in her own bed. Yes. They need not be in this opera house any longer, and Christine wonders when she’ll be able to set foot in this place again at all, this place that has been her home.

Raoul reaches for her hand, holding on tight, and the desperation of it makes Christine want to cry again.

“My heart,” Christine says softly. “I’m going to look after you. You’ll see. I’ll get you home. I promise.”

Raoul shuts her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I…I can’t get a deep breath, Christine, I can’t…it all….hurts. It _hurts_.”

“Shhh…” Christine keeps her voice steady, knowing that this open admission of pain from Raoul is no small thing. Raoul always tries to say she’s fine when she isn’t—during her monthlies when she’s curled up in misery, when she got glass in her cheek the night the chandelier fell, when she gets headaches from stress. Even when they were children she was like this, so her saying something hurts, openly and without restraint, is…rare. “I know. I know.”

The door comes flying open, and Meg returns with her mother, Andre, and Firmin in tow.

“Oh my _word_!” Andre exclaims, his eyes flicking down to Raoul. “Mademoiselle de Chagny, Mademoiselle Daae, we feared….” He looks at Christine in question. “My God, what happened?”

“The…” Christine struggles for what to call Erik. “The opera ghost released us, but I’m afraid I don’t have time to explain, right now,” she continues, firmly, but kindly. “I don’t know where he is now, I only heard the mob coming. Monsieur Andre, Monsieur Firmin, Raoul says there is a fiacre driver waiting, and I need your help getting her outside.”

“Yes, yes of course,” Andre agrees, sending Firmin off to retrieve one of the male dancers to help them. “Are _you_ all right, Mademoiselle Daae?”

“I’m not hurt,” Christine answers, because she’s not all right. She will be. But she isn’t, right now.

“There was a doctor here before,” Meg explains. “But he went with Piangi and Carlotta, apparently, they’re still not sure if…”

Meg falls quiet, and Christine doesn’t know exactly what happened with Piangi—perhaps the bloodcurdling scream had something to do with him—but she knows Meg was about to say _not sure if he’ll make it_. No one explains anything else, because no one wants to upset Raoul. No one asks why she’s in a wedding dress. No one asks anything, and the answers—hers and theirs—will just have to come later.

She feels Madame Giry’s hand on her shoulder once she’s forced to let go of Raoul when Andre, Firmin, and Jacques the dancer pick Raoul up, though she finds herself wishing the ballet mistress would leave her alone, right now. Their relationship has always been complicated, and the fact that Madame Giry encouraged these lessons with Erik when she knew full well he was a man and no ghost, no angel, makes her angry, even if she did help Raoul find her way down. She wants Madame Giry to either behave like a mother, or not.

Meg has always been the superior and more beloved Giry, in her world.

There’s a hush in the halls as they make their way out, several of the ballet girls grasping Christine’s hand as they pass, and it warms her, it makes her remember that there are good things in this opera house, too.

There fiacre driver is, indeed, waiting for them outside.

His eyes bulge out of his head when he lays them on Raoul.

“Monsieur,” Christine says. “…I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

“Marcel.”

Christine smiles. “I’m Christine. It’s good to see you again. Can you….I would very much appreciate it if you could take us back home, if you know the way. I’m afraid Raoul is badly hurt.”

“Yes, yes of course,” Marcel answers, hopping down from the seat to open the door. “Whatever you need, mademoiselle.”

Christine gets in first, watching as the men lay Raoul across the seat opposite her, Meg having taken a blanket from the dressing room and laying it carefully over Raoul, who is barely conscious.

“Come tomorrow?” Christine tells Meg privately as the men and Madame Giry step away. “Please?”

She’s very fond of Philippe and Juliette, but she needs her friend, one of the people she’s known the longest at her side through this.

She needs Meg.

Meg nods, grasping Christine’s hand and pressing a kiss to it.

Christine looks out at Andre, Firmin, and Madame Giry gathered just outside the door as Marcel takes his seat again. They’ll want to ask her a thousand questions, soon, and she doesn’t know how she’ll answer. She doesn’t know how she’ll bear it. Everything that happened tonight seems so private, so raw, that she’s not sure how to tell anyone who wasn’t there.

“Thank you,” she says. “Be careful, all of you.”

“Take care, Mademoiselle Daae,” Andre replies, Firmin nodding at his side, whatever anger he bore toward them apparently gone now. “Let us know how she is, when you can.”

Christine says she will, and she’s about to shut the door when the police chief himself comes striding up to the carriage, calling out for them to stop.

“None of you thought to tell me that Mademoiselle Daae and Mademoiselle de Chagny came back?” he asks, furrowing his brow as he reaches them. “Mademoiselle Daae, I need you to answer some questions, some of my men went down with the others but they haven’t returned yet and I…”

“No!” Christine shouts.

The chief’s eyes widen, and Meg smirks, looking impressed.

“I…pardon?”

“My…” she adjusts her words because she can’t say fiancée. “Raoul is very badly hurt. I need to get her to a doctor. Everything else will have to wait.”

“Mademoiselle,” the chief presses. “It sounds like an attempted murder happened which only…”

Christine leans forward out of the carriage. “I _said_ not right now. I don’t know where the opera ghost is, and I don’t have time for this. If you would like to pay a visit in a few days’ time, you may come to the de Chagny house. Mademoiselle Giry has the address should you need it.”

The chief agrees hastily, and Christine shuts the door without another word.

And she’s alone with Raoul again.

“We’re going home,” Christine tells her. “We’re going home, Raoul.” 

* * *

Christine leaps—as well as she can, in this dress—out of the fiacre once they reach the de Chagny house.

“Marcel,” she says, coming around to the front. “I know we’ve asked a lot of you tonight, but once I have Raoul inside, could you possibly drive for the doctor? He lives just a few streets down, I can give you the address.”

“Yes, mademoiselle. Happy to. I’ll go as soon as she’s out. I tried to keep things smooth on the drive, I hope I didn’t jostle her too much.”

“You were perfect. Thank you so much.”

Christine presses his hand before running up to the door and knocking hard. She could just go in, she supposes, this is her home now too, isn’t it? But it feels odd, still. Someone answers almost immediately, and she’s relieved to see that it’s Madeline, and not say, Eloise.

“Christine!” Madeline exclaims. “You….you’re in a wedding dress.”

Christine takes Madeline’s hands. “Raoul’s badly hurt and I…”

“Christine?” Juliette appears in the doorway too, already looking pale. “Oh, Christine thank god, but….where’s Raoul?”

“She’s alive,” Christine says, seeing the panic in Juliette’s eyes. “But she’s hurt, and I need…I need help getting her out of the fiacre so the driver can go for the doctor.”

“Madeline,” Juliette says without a single argument or question, and Christine’s grateful for it. “Please take the children upstairs, I don’t want them to see.”

Madeline agrees with one worried glance back at the fiacre, and then Juliette shouts for Philippe’s servant Lucien and her husband Francois, and there’s a moment before they arrive, a moment where Juliette has time to ask something. It’s so odd to see her looking normal in the pale lamplight, still dressed in a deep blue gown, her hair that’s the same shade of sandy blonde as Raoul’s done neatly up. She’s a little more round-faced than her sister—who seems all sharp angles—and maybe an inch shorter, but she looks so very related to Raoul.

“How seriously is she hurt?”

“Very.” Christine’s voice cracks, all of the emotions she’s tried to keep back threatening her. “He took me, the ghost…” she uses the name she knows Juliette will recognize. “And Raoul came after me. I’m so sorry, Juliette.”

Juliette takes Christine’s face in her hand. “No. You got her back here. Never be sorry.” She turns around, calling out again more sharply. “Francois! Lucien! Raoul’s hurt, I need you to come, _now_!”

There’s the sound of footsteps, and Christine leads Juliette toward the carriage, seeing some of the lights in the nearby windows brighten at the commotion. Juliette climbs inside, speaking softly to her sister.

“Raoul, _ma petite_ ,” she says. “Oh, my sweet girl. We’re going to get you inside.”

“Juliette?” Raoul asks in that hoarse, raspy voice just as Lucien and Francois come up behind them and then there’s…

Oh no. There’s Philippe, standing in the doorway, his arm in a sling.

“Christine?” Philippe asks, and he sounds like a young man as he watches Juliette direct Francois and Lucien. “Christine what’s happened?”

Christine’s about to answer, but she’s distracted by Raoul’s pained gasp as Francois lifts her up in a bridal carry, Lucien at his elbow in case he falters. The blood that was collecting across the front of Raoul’s ripped open shirt drips down onto the ground, and even Juliette, so clearly trying to stay calm, gives a little gasp. Raoul’s wounds are clearer in the light spilling from inside the house—the white shirt smeared with blood, the bruised cheek, the horrible red ring around her neck, and those are just to name the worst of them.

“Oh my god.” Philippe claps a hand over his mouth. “Oh my dear god, _Raoul_.”

Christine isn’t sure what to do. She isn’t sure what to say. She’s going to be a part of this family but she isn’t entirely, yet, and she doesn’t want them to be angry at her. She doesn’t want them to try and say she can’t see Raoul. She doesn’t think they would, but she’s still afraid.

Juliette rushes up to Philippe, ushering him inside. “Let’s go inside, we’ll wake the street and have them in our business. We need to lie Raoul down.”

Christine gives Marcel the address of Dr. Aubert and thanks him again before following the de Chagny siblings back inside. Francois lays Raoul gingerly down on the sofa, and Philippe rushes forward before anyone can stop him, squatting down awkwardly and nearly losing his balance with his arm still in the sling.

“Philippe?” Raoul asks, sounding half outside herself. “’Philippe is that you?”

“It’s me, my dear girl,” Philippe answers. “We’ve got you home. Christine brought you home.”

Raoul jolts for no reason that Christine can see, except for every memory of the past few hours. “Did he follow us? Did he follow us here? You can’t let him take Christine, you can’t…”

“The ghost isn’t here,” Philippe says in a soothing voice, but the touch of his hand on Raoul’s face makes her tense further, and all Christine can hear is Erik’s voice in her head, the way he said _is this what you did?_ as he ran his finger across Raoul’s cheek. “I promise you he isn’t here.”

He looks back at Christine as if to confirm that, and she wishes she could say _he won’t bother us again_ , but she doesn’t know, she only knows she saw Erik break down, that she saw that rawness in his eyes, the way he looked at himself in the mirror, the way he looked at Raoul, the way he looked at _her_ , like he was seeing her as a person with wants and needs and not just a voice, his voice, for the first time.

“Francois, Lucien, take Raoul up to her room.” Juliette takes charge, her hand on Philippe’s shoulder. “Christine and I will be up in a moment.”

Christine can hardly bear to lose sight of Raoul, but she needs to explain to Philippe and Juliette, at least briefly.

“Raoul!” Philippe calls out, and he sounds like he might have already had his evening dose of Laudanum for his arm, the words a touch slurred.

“Philippe, my heart,” Juliette chides, tugging on his good arm. “We need to get her upstairs, and we can’t upset her.”

“Juliette…” Philippe sounds absolutely, entirely wrecked. “It’s _Raoul_. She can’t go before us. I can’t…I won’t stand for it.”

“I know.” Juliette’s voice wavers, keeping one hand on her brother’s arm. “I know.” She reaches out for Christine’s hand, taking it warmly in her own. “Are you hurt, dear? I…what happened?”

“I’m not hurt.”

She is hurt, but not in they way Juliette means.

“I…” she struggles to even try and and explain. “He appeared on stage and kidnapped me. Raoul followed. There was…an altercation.” She doesn’t think she can explain the choice. The kiss. The way Erik dragged Raoul across the ground by her collar. The way he threw her against the portcullis like a rag doll. Don Juan and the way she ripped off his mask and initiated the final stage of the nightmare. Any of it. Not right now. “He and Raoul fought and that wound you saw, that was from a knife and I don’t know how deep, it was more of a swipe, and then…he tried to strangle her, with…” she hesitates, wishing wishing wishing she didn’t have to say such things Raoul’s siblings, to these people who raised her. “…a rope. That’s what I’m most concerned about. She’s having trouble breathing and she…she was coughing up blood. I rowed us back across the lake, after it was over. I tried to be as careful as I could.”

“Christine…” Philippe blinks, and he’s crying, his voice husky with tears. “How did you get away?”

“I…” she tries. “I convinced him to release us. And a mob of people were going down to his lair beneath the opera but I… I don’t know what happened, after that. I…” she pauses, and she starts trembling and she wants to be brave, but it’s been so hard and she can’t stop the images of the past few hours from invading her mind. “She fought so hard, she….” She sniffs, twisting her fingers as she looks up at both of them. “If you blame me I understand but I…I love her. More than I can say. I….”

She starts crying, biting her lip and barely holding back a full-blown sob.

“Oh, darling girl,” Philippe says, and he says _darling_ like Raoul does, in that same heartfelt, earnest way, and it just makes Christine want to cry more. “We don’t. We don’t blame you.”

Juliette pulls Christine to her, running a hand up and down her back. “We’ll keep you both safe. Raoul will get better and she’s alive right now because of you. Please remember that.”

Christine nods against Juliette’s chest, wishing she could peel this dreadful wedding dress off, wishing she could rip it to shreds. The song Erik gave her is tucked inside, and she barely knows what to do with it.

“The necklace.” Philippe speaks again, as if suddenly realizing something. “I thought the wretch took that?”

“He…um…” Christine doesn’t have the energy to explain this, right now, because she barely understands it, herself. “He gave it back to me.”

“We’ll discuss this all later,” Juliette says gently. “Philippe, I need you to stay here, while Christine and I go tend to Raoul until the doctor gets here.”

“Juliette…” Philippe protests, sounding a bit more like his usual grumpy—though good-natured—self. “She’s…”

Juliette puts a hand on her older brother’s cheek. “You’re too upset. I can tell. Besides, we need to change her clothes, and such. Just wait down here, I’ll send Lucien and Francois to sit with you. You still have a broken arm.”

“Tell her I love her,” Philippe replies. “Please.”

It’s a raw, unchecked sentiment from a man who plays things close to the vest, and it makes Christine’s heart ache. She knows how much Philippe loves Raoul, how he’s like Raoul’s father, really, as well as a sibling. Christine clasps his hand, drawing out a weak, wavering smile.

Juliette agrees and beckons Christine up the stairs with her, though she stops just outside the doorway to Raoul’s room.

“Christine, I…” she studies the wet, bloodied wedding dress. “We can talk about what happened later but I wanted to ask, just between us if…well I see this dress and I didn’t know if it was your costume, or…” she takes a breath, steadying herself. “I wanted to make sure that man didn’t…hurt you. In a way you might not have wanted to say in front of Philippe.”

Christine shakes her head, touched at the concern. “He…there were some unwanted advances and…touches, but he didn’t…it didn’t get that far. Thank you for asking.”

She thinks of Don Juan. She thinks of Erik’s hand running up her thigh and the way he said _kiss me_. She thinks of being faced with this dress. She thinks of the way he pinned Raoul and smirked, the way he stroked her cheek like it was a threat.

Christine knows that Erik was in love in with her, that he wanted to marry her, that he was obsessed with her, but he’s been fixated on them both, hasn’t he? They were both caught up in his web. Just…very differently.

They’ve both been trapped.

But as Christine started emerging from Erik’s clutches, from his world, Raoul had to step deeper inside.

There’s not time for more questions, because Juliette turns at the sound of Raoul’s panicked voice.

“Christine!” she calls out, though a cough cuts her off. “Where is she? Francois, where is she?”

“She’s right downstairs _ma petitie_ ,” Francois says, trying to soothe her. “I promise you.”

“Please…” Raoul begs. “He could have…he might have….”

Juliette opens the door then, ushering Christine gently inside and quietly asking Lucien to go sit with Philippe while Francois goes to check on Madeline with the children. Christine hears Lucien say something to Victor the cook in the hallway, something about making something for Philippe, and Francois kisses Juliette’s cheek on his way out.

“Christine…” Raoul’s voice cracks again, but her labored breathing does ease a little. “Christine, is that you?”

Christine hurries over as best she can in the damn dress, sitting on the edge of the bed next to Raoul. “I’m here, my love. I’m not going anywhere. I promise. I promise you. Marcel, our friend, went to get Dr. Aubert, but Juliette and I are going to take care of you, all right?”

“I’m so sorry, Christine,” Raoul whispers, a touch more lucid than earlier, those bright blue eyes dull and welling up with tears. “I’m so _sorry_.”

Christine puts both of her hands carefully on Raoul’s face. She’s never seen Raoul like this. She’s seen Raoul upset, certainly, but this is different. This is more, and it’s new. Raoul’s taken care of her for months while she faced what was happening to her, while she worked to undo Erik’s abuse, and she swears to _God_ she’s going to take care of Raoul now. She can hold them both together, for now. She knows she can.

What Christine wouldn’t give to see that brilliant, mischievous smile again, that smile with just a little shyness lurking around the edges. The way Raoul can sound confident even as she blushes noticeably.

“Look at me, Raoul. You have nothing to be sorry for. If not for you, I would have been lost, tonight. To God knows what terrible fate. I would have been lost months ago.”

Raoul’s shaking hand covers one of Christine’s. “You saved me, Christine. You _saved_ me.”

“No.” Christine shakes her head, pressing a kiss to Raoul’s forehead. “We saved each other.”

Juliette’s blinking back tears herself as she sits down, brushing a strand of damp hair from Raoul’s face. “Dear heart,” she says. “We want to get you out of these dirty clothes, and get you and Christine both some water before the doctor gets here, can we do that?”

Raoul nods, trying to give her sister a little smile. “Is Philippe all right?”

Juliette visibly winces at the hoarse sound of Raoul’s voice. “He’s downstairs, he said to say he loves you very much.”

They get Raoul sitting up—not something that can last long, Christine suspects—and then Juliette pours them both some water, bidding Christine drink hers while she helps Raoul. Christine drinks nearly all of it down, but Raoul makes a little noise of pain, and only gets a few sips.

“Swallowing isn’t….” she tries. “Perhaps…later. My throat feels…swollen.”

Juliette looks more than a little concerned, but she takes the glass back. “We need to get you out of these clothes, can you manage it?”

Raoul nods, and Christine retrieves a nightdress from the chest of drawers. They unbutton Raoul’s ruined white shirt, the bloodied corset lying beneath. Juliette clicks her tongue, undoing the clasps on the front, and finally, Christine sees the knife wound. It’s not as bad as it could be—she thinks the corset actually stopped it from being overly deep—but it is long, stretching from the center of Raoul’s abdomen and curving across to the right over her ribs. It bleeds more once the corset and the shortened chemise are off, too, and Christine rushes to retrieve a towel from Raoul’s bathroom before Juliette even has to ask. Raoul winces when Christine press it against the wound, shutting her eyes a moment. She’s holding her whole body in a tense, rigid posture, and Christine strokes her hair, hoping it might make her relax.

It makes her jump, instead.

She seems to notice she jumped, relaxing just a moment later once she seems to recall who is touching her.

God, this hurts. Christine’s _chest_ hurts. Despite the relief of being away from danger, from Erik, seeing Raoul like this, in such pain, sends a deep, resounding pang through her whole body.

“I’m sorry,” Christine murmurs. “I know it hurts.”

Raoul clasps one of her hands over the top of the towel and doesn’t speak, letting Juliette gingerly tug her shoes and trousers off. Raoul sucks in a breath through her teeth as Juliette carefully puts her in a pair of fresh drawers, not wanting to leave her in damp ones. Light purple bruises spatter Raoul’s bare chest—a result of Erik pressing her against the portcullis with his body weight, she assumes.

Christine moves the towel away so they can both get the clean nightdress over Raoul’s head, hoping to give her at least some modicum of modesty when the doctor arrives, though her wounds aren’t leaving much room for that.

“I can manage this, Christine dear,” Juliette says, red creeping across the white towel again when she puts it against Raoul’s abdomen, the nightdress bunched up so she can get to the wound. “If you want to clean up her wrists a little, before Dr. Aubert gets here.”

Christine retrieves towels and water from the bathroom, suddenly remembering yet another injury.

“Let’s put a pillow under your ankle,” she suggests, picking one up from the armchair and sliding it under Raoul’s foot, propping it up.

Raoul cries out, and despite it all, despite Erik letting them go, despite everything that happened, his change of heart or…whatever it might be called, Christine wants to find him, she wants to shake him, she wants to say _how could you do this to her_.

Christine dabs away at the blood on Raoul’s wrists as gently as possible, first one, and then the other.

That’s when the front door comes open, and the voice that rings through the house isn’t Dr. Aubert’s.

It’s Eloise.

“Philippe!” she screeches. “What on earth _happened_ , a friend came to knock on my door at midnight saying something about the opera house, that Raoul and that Daae girl hadn’t been seen.”

“Eloise…” Philippe says in that low, calm voice. “Raoul’s here, she’s hurt, but we’ve summoned the doctor. Christine.” He speaks the name pointedly, and Christine is grateful for it. “Is also here.”

There’s a pause and the sound of rustling skirts.

“Eloise, do _not_!” Philippe shouts, but he’s not in any position to chase her, with his arm throwing him off balance. “Your sister is hurt, you are not to go shouting at her.”

Eloise comes up, anyway. Christine hears her running up the stairs as fast as her skirts allow her.

Raoul’s breathing quickens.

“No…” she mutters. “Please, no.”

The door bangs open.

Eloise lets out a muffled little scream when she lays eyes on Raoul, clapping a hand to her mouth. She looks a mess, her usually immaculate light brown hair tumbling loose down her back and her dress mussed.

“Eloise…” Juliette puts one hand up. “There cannot be any fighting, please go back downstairs and sit with Philippe. Christine and I have this handled until Dr. Aubert arrives.”

Eloise ignores her sister and spins around, pointing one finger at Christine.

“You did this!” she shouts, tears brimming in her eyes. “ _Look_ at her! She looks like a madman beat her half to death! You should go, Mademoiselle Daae.”

“ _Eloise_ ,” Raoul tries, but the anger in her voice makes her cough, a little blood coming up again. “Stop. You can’t…”

Christine puts a light hand on Raoul’s chest, stepping forward toward Eloise before Juliette can intervene.

“If you think I am leaving your sister for one moment…” Christine looks Eloise right in the eye, because if she can face down Erik, she can handle Raoul’s stuck-up sister. “Then you are severely mistaken.” She pauses, deciding whether or not she should say what she wants to, and throwing caution to the wind. “I know about the letter of mine you tore up. The letter I sent Raoul after my father died. But you weren’t able to keep us apart, in the end. And you certainly won’t now.”

Juliette’s eyes widen, but she seems to put at least some of the pieces together, because she comes over to her Eloise, half-pushing her out the door.

“Go sit with Philippe, she tells her, anger landing heavy on every word. “Do not come back in here until and unless you can be kind.”

“Juliette…” Eloise insists, tears streaming down her face. “That is my _sister_.”

“And you are upsetting her,” Juliette whispers harshly. “She’s here at all because of Christine, who is Raoul’s fiancée, whatever the damned law might say. Go. Right now.”

Eloise huffs, going without another word. Juliette doesn’t have time to ask the question Christine knows she wants to because the door opens again, and there’s murmuring and more footsteps coming up the stairs, before a kindly older gentleman comes inside.

“Raoul de Chagny,” he says, removing his hat and giving a little smile. “It seems you’ve gotten into a little trouble.” 

* * *

Christine stays with Raoul the entire time. She explains what she needs to, about the strangulation, but Dr. Aubert doesn’t insist on every detail.

She watches him spread camphor over the thin cut on Raoul’s face and on the little wounds on her wrists, wrapping them with care. He does the same with the knife wound on her abdomen before bandaging it. He uses something called a wet bandage that Christine hasn’t seen before, that he says will keep it clean and hopefully prevent infection.

He wraps her sprained ankle.

And then he tends to the most frightening thing of all.

Her neck.

He spreads yet more camphor on the rope burns, then has Christine and Juliette help Raoul sit up so he can feel for swelling in her throat.

Raoul winces as soon as he touches it.

“I know, I’m sorry Raoul, dear,” he murmurs. “Have you been coughing? Just nod or shake your head.”

Raoul nods.

“She was coughing up blood,” Christine pipes up, drawing Dr. Aubert’s attention. “Wheezing, too.”

Dr. Aubert smiles. “Thank you, Mademoiselle Daae. I will have a few questions for you, when we’re done here.” He smiles at what must be the quizzical look on her face. “I saw you, the night of Hannibal.” He smiles again at Juliette, who looks fondly back. “The de Chagnys gave me tickets. I helped bring Raoul here into the world, you see, and Juliette’s own children, too. We’re old friends.”

Bringing Raoul into the world also means being here when the Comtess died. It means he’s someone this family trusts, and Christine feels safer now with this man, who hasn’t pressed them for any details he doesn’t need. She appreciates that his first priority is Raoul’s health, and not the dramatic details of what happened in the opera house tonight.

He feels Raoul’s throat a bit more, before pulling out his stethoscope. “There is swelling in your throat,” he tells her. “And what I’m assuming is a bruised larynx, hence the bleeding. Do you feel light-headed?”

“I did,” Raoul says, in that raspy voice. “A bit less so now.”

“Hmm…” Dr. Aubert shifts the collar of the nightdress aside, gentle when Raoul tenses. “Your heart sounds normal.” He moves it to her back. “Breathe in deep, as much as you can.”

Raoul does, and Christine hears the wheeze again. The terrible, rattling wheeze.

“Some fluid in your lungs, I think,” Dr. Aubert continues. “Inflamed airways. I’m going to recommend sleeping on your side until further notice. It will make breathing easier.”

He pulls out a strange looking contraption Christine hasn’t seen before, with a glass mouthpiece, and Raoul’s wheezing does ease, a touch, after he helps her use it.

“It’s usually for asthma,” he explains. “But the medicated vapors may help open up the airways, a touch. We’ll see.”

He pours Raoul a dose of Laudanum for pain, and after only a few minutes pass, she’s fast asleep.

Christine can’t say she doesn’t fear she won’t wake up.

She watches Raoul sleep for a moment, watching the rise and fall of her chest, listening for the sound of her breath, like it might be a symphony of it’s own.

Dr. Aubert takes them downstairs where Philippe—and unfortunately Eloise—are both waiting.

“Dr. Aubert.” Philippe makes to stand up immediately, but Dr. Aubert gestures at him to stay sitting. “How is she?”

The tears in the usually calm, collected Comte’s eyes make Christine’s chest twinge, and she wants out of this _dress_ and she just wants to sit with Raoul and watch her sleep even if she’s desperate for sleep herself, but she has to do this first.

“She’s sleeping,” Dr. Aubert answers. “She could be worse off, but I admit to being concerned about the inflammation in her throat. The trouble with strangulation wounds is that they can worsen days later. If she makes it through tonight…”

“ _If_?” Philippe interrupts, his voice cracking, and Juliette grasps his hand.

“I feel largely certain she will,” Dr. Aubert amends. “But I can’t lie to you about the possibility. If the swelling worsens, I’ll have to recommend taking her to a hospital where we can do a tracheotomy. I’d like to avoid doing surgery, if possible. There’s some fluid in her lungs, too, and normally I’d recommend a purgative for that, but her throat is too inflamed, at the moment. We’ll have to see if that changes, in the morning. Liquids only, at the moment. Teas. Broths. Nothing solid, for now. I fear her choking on it.”

Philippe runs a hand over his face, a barely bitten back sob escaping his lips. Juliette sits next to him instead of just taking his hand, and Eloise, in a nearby chair, looks up at Christine for a fleeting moment with something like remorse.

“Mademoiselle Daae,” Dr. Aubert says, very kind. “I think I ought to look you over myself, but first, would you mind telling me if there was a period during this where Raoul couldn’t get air at all? I know it must be difficult to discuss and I know you’ve told me the method was a rope, but a few more details would be helpful to me.”

Christine starts shaking, and Juliette gets up, insisting Christine take her seat on the sofa next to Philippe, who takes her hand in his. Something about it, this acceptance by at least two-thirds of Raoul’s family, calms her down.

“He…” she tries, taking a deep gulp of air herself. “He put the rope around her neck and tightened it, but she could get air, it seemed, just not very much.” She blinks, letting the tears flow freely, because it requires too much energy to stop them. “He had her wrists and ankles tied, so she couldn’t lift herself, really, to get more and…” Philippe presses her hand tight. “She started sagging in them because she was tired and that seemed to make it even harder and then he…he tightened it again, and then…I suppose there was about a minute where she couldn’t breathe at all, and she was almost unconscious. But she didn’t fall entirely so.”

“I see.” Dr. Aubert smiles at her again, and there’s no blame there. “That is good news. I’m so sorry this happened to you, Mademoiselle Daae. Are you hurt at all? I see there’s a bruise on your wrist.”

Christine looks down, jumping a little at the sight of the rapidly purpling skin on her right wrist.

“I…” she stumbles over the words a little. “I hadn’t noticed.” Once she notices that, _everything_ seems to come to her and her entire body _hurts_ , a deep pounding ache throbbing in her arms and her legs and behind her eyes. “I am a bit sore and just…tired.”

“I think a little Laudanum for you too, tonight,” Dr. Aubert suggests. “And something to eat.” He reaches for her wrist when she nods her assent, and it is sore to the touch. “Nothing broken,” he says. “Though it might be lightly sprained. I’ll wrap it and then, Philippe, if it’s all right with you, I think I ought to stay the night, should Raoul take a turn.”

Philippe agrees, and once Dr. Aubert wraps Christine’s wrist he takes Philippe up to see Raoul, leaving Christine, Juliette, and Eloise alone.

God, Christine wants out of this dress. She doesn’t want to deal with Eloise de Chagny tonight.

“I’m sorry I was…that I shouted at you earlier, Christine.” Eloise speaks into the quiet, finally refraining from a more formal address, though she won’t look Christine in the eye. “And thank you. For bringing our sister back to us. I…I’ll go see if Victor can make something for you and then I’ll be on my way, so as not to upset Raoul further.” She glances up at Juliette. “I’ll return in the morning, if that’s all right, Juliette.”

Juliette nods, though there’s still anger glimmering in her eyes when she quickly presses her sister’s hand. Christine follows Juliette to her room after stopping in Raoul’s to retrieve a nightdress. It’s empty, so Francois and Madeline must have taken the children to the now largely unused nursery to occupy them.

“Let’s get this dress off, shall we?” Juliette asks, and she sounds so much like a mother that it makes Christine want to cry.

She’s so _tired_ , and she doesn’t want to be apart from Raoul much longer. She can barely stand it.

Juliette undoes the lacings, and Christine tenses when she remembers Erik’s hands doing them just a few hours ago, too close, too close after the way he touched her during Don Juan.

Juliette stops. “Do you want me to keep going, dear?”

“Yes,” Christine whispers. “I’m sorry, I just…the ghost he…he had me put this on, but he had to tie it up for me and it…”

“I understand,” Juliette says gently, and Christine admires how she’s held it together this entire evening, despite seeing her beloved younger sister in such a state. “Just let me know if you need me to stop.”

Christine breathes a sigh of relief when it finally comes off along with her corset a moment later, and she pulls the nightdress over her head.

She wants to _burn_ the damn dress.

The song Erik gave her fluttered to the floor when the dress came off, having been tucked inside her bodice.

“What’s that?” Juliette asks, tilting her head, though she lets Christine pick it up.

“A song.” Christine clasps it in her hand a moment before laying it on Juliette’s vanity, unopened. “That Erik wrote. I…he gave it to me before we left.”

“Erik,” Juliette mutters softly, rage rushing through her words, rage for the man who bore such violence against her sister. “That’s his name?”

Christine nods, and Juliette doesn’t press her for more, not tonight, instead having Christine sit at the vanity. Juliette brushes through Christine’s snarled, messy, sweaty curls, and every emotion she’s felt tonight, the pain and terror and the sheer relief comes back to greet her.

She remembers Dr. Aubert’s words.

_If she makes it._

“I’m so sorry, Juliette,” she whispers into the quiet. “I’m so…”

Once she starts crying, she can’t stop. She can’t stop she can’t _stop_. She can’t hold it back anymore and she’s shaking all _over_. She’s safe. She’s _safe_ , why is she crying like this?

“My darling girl,” Juliette says, crying a little herself as she gets down on her knees by the chair, reminding Christine starkly of Raoul, which only makes her cry harder. “You don’t need to be. I promise you don’t.”

“I tried to stop him…” Christine’s voice turns into little more than a squeak as Juliette takes her hand. “And I…in the end I said I would stay there with him, if he would just let her go.”

The kiss comes back to her then, the chaste, fleeting kiss that seemed to last a lifetime.

His lips felt so cold.

Not like Raoul, who is warm, always. Warm and so alive in a way Erik never has been, and she feels for him, she does, but _god_ , it didn’t give him the right to try and crush the life out of them.

“Listen to me, Christine,” Juliette replies. “You are a brave young woman. One of the most resilient I’ve ever seen. We’ll get Raoul through this. We’ll get you through this.”

“I love her so much.” Christine’s voice crackles, and she wipes her eyes. “I would do anything for her.”

“I know.” Juliette gets up, pressing a kiss to Christine’s forehead, and Christine can’t stop herself from jumping, because all she can think of are Erik’s cold lips on her skin. “I know you do. And I know you would.”

Victor comes by then, bringing a small plate of bread and cheese that Christine eats quickly, feeling terrible that Raoul can’t really eat well, at the moment. Juliette wipes her dirty face off then, and that small thing for some reason makes Christine feel a touch better.

“The police may be by tomorrow,” Christine tells her, and she has no idea how they’re going to deal with that. “And my friend Meg. I… I don’t know what they’re going to ask.”

“We’ll handle that tomorrow,” Juliette says. “And you can tell us a bit more about what happened, if you’re ready. Right now, let’s get you back to Raoul.”

They pause in the doorway once they reach Raoul’s room, finding Philippe alone with his sister.

“ _Ma petite_ ,” Philippe’s saying softly, like he might be talking to a little girl. “You would fight the world for your Christine, wouldn’t you? Even a ghost.” He brushes a stray hair out of Raoul’s face, and Raoul, deeply asleep, doesn’t stir. “You have to be all right, my girl. I’m not sure what I’d do without you. Juliette and Eloise won’t smoke with me on the portico, you know.”

“Raoul shouldn’t smoke with you either,” Juliette chides, making Philippe turn in surprise, his eyes widening at being seen in his vulnerable moment. “Is Dr. Aubert settled in?”

Philippe nods before turning to Christine. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“I’m fine, thank you for asking,” Christine says. “Only tired.”

“We’ll let you rest.” Philippe presses the sleeping Raoul’s hand, though he looks loathe to leave her. “And I’ll start having Madeline move your things into the suite in a few days, you both ought to have more space. And you…please alert us, if there’s anything wrong with Raoul in the night.”

“I will.” Christine presses a kiss to his cheek, feeling a little bold. “I promise.”

She takes the small dose of Laudanum under Juliette’s watchful eye, thanking her at least five times before climbing into bed next to Raoul, and it’s still so strange that here in this house, their love is no secret. It doesn’t have to be.

Then, after everything, she’s alone with Raoul.

They’re both here. They’re both alive. She takes the locket off, laying it with great care on the bedside table.

Every sound in the large house makes her tense. Every whisper of the wind outside the window. But he’s not coming. No. No. He won’t come. She thinks instead of the warm covers. Of Raoul right here next to her. Of the doctor and Raoul’s kind siblings just down the hall.

The fact that she doesn’t know what happened to Erik makes her uneasy, even as she repeats the reassurances to herself. She doesn’t want him dead, but she doesn’t want him changing his mind and coming here, either.

Raoul looks pained, even in sleep, and Christine runs a finger down her cheek, hoping it might ease the nightmares. Raoul’s eyes slowly flutter open, and those familiar blue irises are still bloodshot.

“Christine?”

_Please stay with me_ , Christine’s heart whispers into the silence. _Please don’t leave. Please don’t go._

“I’m here,” Christine says, her own eyes growing heavy from the medicine. “I’m right here, my love.”

“Darling…” Raoul’s eyes fall closed again, but she keeps talking, and it nearly makes Christine laugh. “I wrote… there’s a song I wrote for you, for our…” she coughs a little, which makes her eyes open again. “For our wedding. And I want you to have it, if…”

Christine’s heart pounds and pounds and pounds, tears sliding down her cheeks.

Raoul wrote her a song.

She thinks of the one Erik handed her, still resting on Juliette’s vanity, for now.

And she knows which one she wants to hear.

“Shh,” Christine murmurs. “You are going to be fine, however long it takes. And then you’ll play it for me on the violin. I’m so excited to hear it.” She puts a kiss on Raoul’s nose. “We are going to be happy, Raoul. I promise you, and I know it because you swore it to me that night on the rooftop. You saw the light for us, despite it all. You made me believe in it again. We’re going to have summers. Picnics. Monmartre. All the things we’ve talked about it.”

Raoul takes Christine’s hand, her words half-slurred. “You’re my hero, Christine Daae. I love you. I love you.”

Christine sucks in a breath. “And you mine. Sleep. I’ll be right here. I love you.”

Raoul nods into the pillow, and in another moment or two, she’s gone again.

Christine studies her sleeping face for a long time, feeling the enormity of everything standing in front of them. The inevitable arrival of the police. The mystery of what happened to Erik. The unknown of the opera house’s future. Eloise. Raoul’s injuries.

Every single second of what happened tonight that they’ll have to overcome.

Every moment, every image and sound and feeling sears against Christine’s memory, leaving black scorch marks behind.

No part of this will be easy, but for tonight she’s here with Raoul, they’re together despite all the odds, and for tonight…

For tonight it’s all she can hold within herself.

She falls asleep, and for the first time in weeks, there’s no ghostly whisper of a song in ear.

There’s just Raoul. Just her.

And the faint, beautiful sound of her father's violin.

**Author's Note:**

> There are??? 4 ish chapters left?? Something like that, in any case!


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